DATE & TIME: January 25th, 10:25pm
LOCATION: Fun fair, outside of the Funhouse
STATUS: Closed for @minvlibi
Metzger tells her to question everyone, to search the rooms—take them apart if need be—interrogate those who she thinks are involved, to use of force if necessary—how much? That’s up to your discretion. Unwise to leave the fire open to air, to let it breathe and grow and burn unchecked, but she just walks away from him, as if listening had ever really occurred to her. It only happened to suit her already, didn’t it?
But she knows no one will talk—no one will give names so easily having brought her fist down hard amongst prime targets—she has to go to him. Hates him, hates the wide open grin of his mouth and the way he disappears and reappears thinner than the misty morning. Hates him, what he knows—which is seemingly everything and almost nothing, it’s hard to say.
(How could a woman made to be tough and solid and lasting ever value a man who slipped so easily through her fingers, so nebulous and changeable? And yet, he proved handy more than once, even if his information was just as slippery, unsure if what he told her was the truth or some distortion of it.)
But where to find him? How to call upon the ghost of a person, its shadow, its reflection? “Kanta,” she commands into the dark of the closed down fair near his hall of mirrors, shut for the night, canvas tent flaps whispering in the wind, “I know you’re here. Come out.”
